Meaningless
by Muriel Candytuft
Summary: What if the White Witch had killed Edmund, Maugrim had killed Susan and Lucy, and only Peter was left?


Meaningless

_A/N: This is to keep you guys busy until I can update "Frozen Memories". Thanks for your reviwes and encouragement! _

_Movie-based, oneshot. Drama/Angst/Tragedy_

_Narnian year 1000_

From the glade, a horn sounded, but its clear call ended in a brief, choked wheeze. Peter's head snapped towards the sound, and he broke into a run. Aslan, Oreius and some fauns followed him.

Nothing could have prepared Peter for what he found in the glade.

The two wolves he'd confronted earlier at the Great River circled triumphantly about a tree. They grinned evilly, maniacally, as he approached, and he could see fresh blood staining their teeth. Near the wolves lay...

Peter's heart froze along with his body. His stomach lurched. "NO!" he screamed, unable even to hear his own voice.

There lay Susan and Lucy, motionless, bloody, open wounds gaping in their throats.

As he stared, the most brutal, passionate, murderous rage Peter would ever know pumped through his veins. Dizziness and sickness overwhelmed him as with trembling hands, he drew Rhindon from its sheath. Rhindon whistled through the air, joining the sound of a pained animal yelp.

Before Peter fully realised what he was doing, the larger wolf lay dead at his feet.

The smaller wolf bolted away from the glade in terror.

"Follow him," Aslan ordered Oreius. "He'll lead you to Edmund."

Peter barely saw Oreius and his troops disappear into the woods.

He knelt by his sisters. both lay where they had fallen, pale and still, blood oozing from their throats onto their dresses. In a panic, Peter seized the tiny diamond bottle of cordial resting on Lucy's chest and tried to steady his fingers as he opened it.

"It is too late, Son of Adam," Aslan's deep voice, drenched with sadness, rumbled against Peter's ear. Peter turned to face him, horrified grey eyes drilling into the infinite gold of Aslan's.

Aslan nodded slowly. "They're gone."

Slowly, Peter stood, but his knees suddenly gave way, and he crumbled on his back into the long, lush grass.

Aslan bent over him, gold eyes filling. As the Lion's breath warmed Peter's white face, he murmured, "Can't even protect my own family..." The glade swirled about in alarming, dizzying colours, and faded into a void as Peter lost consciousness.

Sluggishly, painfully, Peter awakened himself. He realised that he was in his hammock, in his tent, covered by a snug, red, woolen blanket. Sitting up, Peter wondered how he'd gotten there.

Then he remembered.

His ears pricked at the sound of hushed voices. Recognising Oreius's voice, Peter strained to hear his words.

"...fell upon the White Witch's camp and eliminated their general, Sire."

"Well done," Aslan's voice joined the conversation. "But why are you downcast, Oreius?"

"Sire...we could not rescue the younger Son of Adam."

"Why not?"

A long pause. Peter held his breath, praying that Edmund wasn't...

"Sire...we found his body in the River. Stabbed twice around the heart."

As their voices drowned in a sea of wails from Dryads, Nymphs, and female Fauns and Centaurs, Peter squeezed his eyes shut and allowed his head to sink wearily back into his pillow.

Nightmare.

He wanted to wake up, return to England to find all well, scream for all this to stop.

He wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. This couldn't be happening.

But he knew the truth.

An hour later, all troops were ordered to go back to bed. Quiet reigned over the camp once more. But Peter's mind was tumultuous and confused.

He lay in tearless silence in his hammock, listening to his breathing and the soft, rythymic beat of his heart. A gentle breeze blew in threw the door flaps of his tent, cooling his pale skin and slightly ruffling his gold-brown hair.

It could have been any tranquil Narnian night, except for one agonising difference: All his siblings were dead. The bodies of Susan, Edmund, and Lucy lay peacefully in state in a pavilion. Angrily, Peter wished his was there instead.

At last, restlessness got the better of him and he raised himself from his hammock, threw his leather tunic on, and exited his tent.

He hardly knew why he'd picked up a knife on his way out.

Peter wandered some yards away from the camp, walking slowly, systematically.

Each step that fell on the ground beat a cadence that sounded in his mind as "You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed."

Peter stopped walking, sank to his hands and knees, and gave into his tears. He wept harder than he could remember weeping. But instead of alleviating the grief gnawing at him, his tears only augmented it.

If only he'd been easier on Edmund. If only he'd run faster when Susan blew her horn in a desperate call for help. If only he'd been a better brother. It was too late now. How could he return to England, now that his own insufficiency had taken his siblings' lives? How could he face his mother? _"Take care of them,"_ his mother's voice whispered hauntingly into his mind.

"I-I t-tried, Mum," Peter shouted between sobs. "I tried; I really d-did!" An unfamiliar voice taunted his brain:

"Ah, but you didn't try hard enough."

He pushed his fist against his lips, attempting to contol himself, but it was no use. As his sobbing increased in volume and violence, he subconsciously tightened his fingers about the hilt of his dagger.

An exhausted shiver seized his body. Peter knew he needed sleep--lots of it. At least sleep would afford him release from his guilt and grief. But only for a short time. He knew after a few hours, he'd wake up and face torment again. Perhaps he could run, hard, fast, back to the lamppost, back to the wardrobe, back to England. But he couldn't run from Narnia without Susan and Edmund and Lucy.

No, there was only one way to escape this.

Slowly, Peter removed his leather tunic and flung it aside. He opened his grey shirt, exposing his chest. Then, hands moving as if in a dream, he pulled the knife from its scabbard.

He realised the enormity of the deed he was about to do. He knew it was irreversible. He knew Narnia, without him, wouldn't have a fighting chance.

But he didn't care. Life, with his failure weighing upon it, would be painful and utterly meaningless.

Peter numbly raised his head up, raised his teary grey eyes to the myriad stars again. He pointed the sharp, sinister blade of his dagger where he guessed his heart was. After marvelling over the stars a moment, Peter closed his eyes. They were so beautiful, and so many of them...

Peter tightened his fist about the hilt of his knife.

He thrust.

Hard...

Oreius found Peter's body as the sun rose, cold and still with the morning dew gathering on it.

He knew Narnia was no more.


End file.
